If religious patriarchy was true...

Icon from The Catholic Pilgrim

There was a time when I would have argued that "patriarchal" is most often used in ways that detach it from the meaning and intent used by our spiritual mothers and fathers. I believed that it was most properly applied in their contexts to the spiritual care and oversight offered to us within the universal church, and specifically within the Orthodox churches and their traditions of love, healing and pastoral care that extended to believers and helped their societies survive both foreign invasions and influences and whatever evils were present within those societies. I have seen three Orthodox Patriarchs and many leading Orthodox bishops and abbesses up close and received blessing from many of them. There were quite a few priests and monks and nuns who I encountered along the way who also seemed to live blessed lives in that patriarchal environment and who were doing the hard work of living as solitaries while fighting evil and transmitting to us God's great blessings. There were among all of them those whose piety and holiness were immediately evident and surrounded them and those in their presence like a comfortable sweater.

Today I am more aware of some of the contradictions within orthodoxies and the struggles between feeling moved to withdraw from the world and live in holy piety, wheher one is a monastic or not, and feeling the need to struggle in the world in order to defend with integrity God's creation and life and give active witness to God's bottom line of justice. Moreover, it is hard to believe that in these moments of widespread war, destruction and despair that the traditional and national patriarchial churches and their modern ways of defending particular governments represents a movement towards God's kingdom. In the treasury of their work and teachings there are many gems for us to take from their traditions and go forward with, and the ark that we are navigating the flood that we are in has room for all. The masts, bow, stern, starboard and port side of our ark needs many bright lamps and we depend on many lighthouses as we travel through dark and stormy times in search of our home. 

In defending God's creation and life we are necessarily dependent on the positive accomplishments of the past and on the good accomplished by the Enlightenment and the humanism of the oppressed who Jesus loved so dearly, but all of this will be transformed into something greater and beyond our imaginations. There is a danger in maintaining aanything against the times and there is a danger of throwing everything overboard. Real conciliarity and inclusion should be used to guide us.         

The post below that I have taken from the Coalition of Christian Feminists Facebook page takes us through some Biblical possibilities that feed my imagination and that argue for a different way of reading Scripture and understanding our traditions and possibilities. The closing point in the post should be taken as encouragement to double down in the work that needs to be done.  Please visit the Coalition's Facebook page.  

The post:

If religious patriarchy was true, the angel of the Lord would have spoken first to Manoah about the miraculous conception of Samson.

Instead, he spoke to Manoah’s wife—a woman—alone (Judges 13:2-24).

If religious patriarchy was true, the angel Gabriel would have spoken to Joseph first about the miraculous conception of our Lord.

Instead, he spoke to Mary—a woman—alone (Luke 1:26-38).

If religious patriarchy was true, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ would not have spoken to a Samaritan woman at Jacob’s Well, revealing to her that he was the Messiah.

He did speak to a woman—alone—and she bore witness to her community that the Messiah had come. Many believed because of her testimony (John 4:4-42).

If religious patriarchy was true, the Risen Savior would have first revealed himself to men, entrusting them with the good news of his victory over sin and death.

Instead, he spoke first to women—alone—entrusting them with the good news we call “the gospel.” When the women revealed this message to Jesus’ male disciples, the men did not believe (Luke 24:1-11).

In diagrams, blogs, podcasts and books, religious patriarchy claims that women must relate to God through the “spiritual covering” of men in the church and in the home. Without this covering of “masculine authority,” women—it is claimed—are in danger of being deceived.

Whom are we to believe?

Patriarchal men; or the angel of the Lord, the angel Gabriel and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ? Whose example should we follow?

I believe the disciples in the book of Acts spoke wisely when they told the religious leaders of their day, “We must obey God rather than men” (Acts 5:29).

Quilting and sprituality

I saw this photograph on Travis Chumley's Facebook page yesterday. The caption accompanying the photo indicates that it was taken in Powell Valley, Claiborne County, Tennessee, in the 1940s and also says "Photograph of six women standing around a table saying grace. They are outside and the table is full of food. The women have gathered together to spend the afternoon working on a quilt. Photo: Joe Clark HBSS - Clark Family Photo Collection - Special Collections Library - University of North Texas." The photo at the bottom of this post comes from the same sources.

Coincidentally, National Public Radio (NPR) ran an interesting story on quilting that touched on matters of faith yesterday. The story summary says "For some Black Americans, family histories can be hard to find. Slavery and the discriminatory laws that lingered years later prevented the documentation and record keeping of Black Americans. Today, a group of Black quilters from across the Northeast honor their ancestors through bold and colorful quilts, illustrating their experiences and telling their stories."

Photo from NPR/Connecticut Public Radio

One of the women featured in the NPR story said, "Quilting is also a way to connect with the past, while wrestling with ongoing injustice today. When things happen, like George Floyd, you know we make quilts about that...When loved ones pass away, we make quilts. We honor them with fabric that they wore.” Her name is Love, which seems so appropriate.

You can learn more about the women featured in the NPR story by going to this 2022 Where We Live interview with the group co-founder Susi Ryan. According to a Connecticut Public Radio note, that show also features textile artist and author Jen Hewett, who talked about her recent book featuring hundreds of creators of color who were interviewed about their relationship to making.

There is much to say here or be silent with. I know some women quilters who either do their work mostly alone or who go to quilting stores for companionship and inspiration. Quilting still seems like what we used to respectfully call "women's space." I'm glad that quilting still goes on, and most cold nights I sleep under a quilt made by a woman in McDowell County, West Virginia who used old bluejeans and simple fabric combinations to come up with something that well represents her region. It has handy pockets in it for stuffing things. Her name and address are on the quilt but I have not contacted her. I also have a quilt made out of my old union tee-shirts many years ago and that quilt holds more than a decade of union struggles in it.

I hope that women continue to gather in groups away from businesses and do their quilting with some praying or spiritual work and eating and getting along with one another. 

My heart just prays for a time when we can tear down some of the barriers that separate us and pray together or share our spiritual paths and share our creative work. 

Claiborne County, Tennessee, 1940s...
Caption: Four women are shown working together on quilts. Several completed quilts are shown hanging on a building behind them.
Photo: Joe Clark HBSS - Clark Family Photo Collection - Special Collections Library - University of North Texas

Women, Music, And Possums With A Message

The photograph and the music don't quite go together except that I do like them both. I think that that's Patsy Montana in the photograph, but I may be wrong.

Possum Kingdom---The New Coon Creek Girls

Hazel Dickens

 

The Hazel Dickens Memorial Bridge is on County Route 11 running over the Bluestone River near Montcalm, West Virginia.

She is buried in Princeton, West Virginia.

She lit up my life and the lives of so many others. I really do miss her.

West Virginia My Home

Beautiful Hills Of Galilee

They'll Never Keep Us Down

One woman who worked in the mines

This photograph was taken in 1979, and I believe that it appeared in the Mountain Life & Work magazine. That was a progressive or radical magazine at the time that did much to help build peoples' power and workers' power in Appalachia. Linda King had worked in a garment factory in Virginia for a time but then became a roof bolter's helper or a roof bolter at the Bullitt Mine in Big Stone Gap, Virginia.

Every boy and man needs to hear this loud and clearly

This is one of those posts that I don't want to fall on deaf ears. I don't want men to forget this. Years ago I heard a woman trying very patiently to explain to a man how different it made the two of them that she had to carry her keys in her hand or a whistle with her when she left work and walked to the parking lot at night or had to walk to her car alone after shopping. The guy just didn't get it. Men need to hear this. Every boy and man needs to hear this.

Five Reminders For A Better 2023

This comes from Jonathan Buttry in Holston. Tennessee. Brother Buttry is an active teacher and leader in the Primitive Baptist Universalist community. I have relied on them to help me understand a few weighty religious or spiritual concepts over the past couple of years. I think that there is some real wisdom here.

5 reminders for a better 2023

1. "Honor your father and mother" should never mean accepting their manipulation, abuse, or toxic interactions or behavior.

2. Being a "person of faith" should never mean that seeking professional therapy is a sign of weakness.

3. "Taking up your cross" should never mean denying your needs, desires, or individuality.

4. Being a "Godly woman" should never mean assuming a posture of inferiority, submission and appeasement to men, to tolerate domination and abuse.

5. The "fear of the Lord" should never mean living in a state of anxiety and uncertainty about being unconditionally worthy of acceptance and love.

From Lisa Bloom---How To Talk To Girls

I went to a dinner party at a friend’s home last weekend, and met her five-year-old daughter for the first time. Little Maya was all curly brown hair, doe-like dark eyes, and adorable in her shiny pink nightgown. I wanted to squeal, “Maya, you’re so cute! Look at you! Turn around and model that pretty ruffled gown, you gorgeous thing!”

But I didn’t. I squelched myself. As I always bite my tongue when I meet little girls, restraining myself from my first impulse, which is to tell them how darn cute/ pretty/ beautiful/ well-dressed/ well-manicured/ well-coiffed they are.

What’s wrong with that? It’s our culture’s standard talking-to-little-girls icebreaker, isn’t it? And why not give them a sincere compliment to boost their self-esteem? Because they are so darling I just want to burst when I meet them, honestly.

Hold that thought for just a moment.

This week ABC news reported that nearly half of all three- to six-year-old girls worry about being fat... Eating disorders are up and self-esteem is down; and twenty-five percent of young American women would rather win America’s next top model than the Nobel Peace Prize. Even bright, successful college women say they’d rather be hot than smart. A Miami mom just died from cosmetic surgery, leaving behind two teenagers. This keeps happening, and it breaks my heart.

Teaching girls that their appearance is the first thing you notice tells them that looks are more important than anything. It sets them up for dieting at age 5 and foundation at age 11 and boob jobs at 17 and Botox at 23. As our cultural imperative for girls to be hot 24/7 has become the new normal, American women have become increasingly unhappy. What’s missing? A life of meaning, a life of ideas and reading books and being valued for our thoughts and accomplishments.

That’s why I force myself to talk to little girls as follows.

“Maya,” I said, crouching down at her level, looking into her eyes, “very nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” she said, in that trained, polite, talking-to-adults good girl voice.

“Hey, what are you reading?” I asked, a twinkle in my eyes. I love books. I’m nuts for them. I let that show.

Her eyes got bigger, and the practiced, polite facial expression gave way to genuine excitement over this topic. She paused, though, a little shy of me, a stranger.

“I LOVE books,” I said. “Do you?” Most kids do.

“YES,” she said. “And I can read them all by myself now!”

“Wow, amazing!” I said.

“What’s your favorite book?” I asked.

“I’ll go get it! Can I read it to you?”

Purplicious was Maya’s pick and as Maya snuggled next to me on the sofa and proudly read aloud every word, about our heroine who loves pink but is tormented by a group of girls at school who only wear black. Alas, it was about girls and what they wore, and how their wardrobe choices defined their identities. But after Maya closed the final page, I steered the conversation to the deeper issues in the book: mean girls and peer pressure and not going along with the group. I told her my favorite color in the world is green, because I love nature, and she was down with that.

Not once did we discuss clothes or hair or bodies or who was pretty. It’s surprising how hard it is to stay away from those topics with little girls, but I’m stubborn.

I told her that I’d just written a book, and that I hoped she’d write one too one day. She was fairly psyched about that idea. We were both sad when Maya had to go to bed, but I told her next time to choose another book and we’d read it and talk about it. Oops. That got her too amped up to sleep, and she came down from her bedroom a few times, all jazzed up.

So, one tiny bit of opposition to a culture that sends all the wrong messages to our girls. One tiny nudge towards valuing female brains. One brief moment of intentional role modeling.

Will my few minutes with Maya change our multibillion dollar beauty industry, reality shows that demean women, our celebrity-manic culture? No. But I did change Maya’s perspective for at least that evening.

Try this the next time you meet a little girl. She may be surprised and unsure at first, because few ask her about her mind, but be patient and stick with it.

Ask her what she’s reading. What does she like and dislike, and why? There are no wrong answers. You’re just generating an intelligent conversation that respects her brain.

For older girls, ask her about current events issues: pollution, wars, school budgets slashed. What bothers her out there in the world? How would she fix it if she had a magic wand? You may get some intriguing answers. Tell her about your ideas and accomplishments and your favorite books. Model for her what a thinking woman says and does...

Here’s to changing the world, one little girl at a time.”

~ Lisa Bloom, author of "Think: Straight Talk For Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed-Down World"

Two Stories From Journey Of A Mountain Woman

One of my favorite daily readings comers from the Journey of a Mountain Woman Facebook page. The woman who writes the stories or accounts on that page writes from her heart and from her experiences. it is often tough reading, but it almost always instructive and is often redeeming. Some people from the Appalachian mountains rite only with nostalgia or sentimentality or anger, but this writer writes with truth and can tell a story that sweeps in different points of view. If she had a book out I would buy copies and give them out to my friends and ask you to do the same. She has never answered the messages that I have sent asking if I could repost something so I'm going to post two of her recent entries and hope that she will be okay with that. If you're on Facebook please "like" her.

Here we go.

When I was about eight daddy sent me to the store to buy some nails. Back then they were loose and in a wooden barrel and sold by the pound, half pound or however many you needed. By the time I got out of the holler I had forgotten what size he said so I winged it. Size 51 penny nails, I told the store keeper, Claude Blair. He was a wonderful man and if his lips quivered a bit when I said that, I didn’t think much about it. He told me”I’m all out of that size but I have some I think will work.” There were several old men sitting around on sacks of feed and they all got a coughing spell at the same time. when I got home I told daddy that they were all out of 51 penny nails but he sent some that he thought would work. Daddy smiled and said” that will work fine.’’Later when I went into the store again and the same old men were there and a couple of others also. One spoke up and said “that was a plumb good joke your pa got on you with the nails. Your daddy is a sight.” The other men looked a bit uncomfortable. “What joke?” He said and suddenly I knew. I had asked for the wrong size nails. Daddy took the blame for it. Just another one of his jokes. He never once mentioned it even when some of the men told him that he shouldn’t have done that to me. But daddy and I knew and it raised my love for him a few notches.---December 26

The food is on the stove cooking, the lights are twinkling on my tree, the great grand is napping and I'm trying to warm my feet with a cat in my lap aggravating me. I was thinking as usual. Lately several people have told me that their spouses have not forgiven them for things they have done even though they have tried to change. They have tried to bring God into their hearts and be better people. My daddy was a kind and gentle person to me. He was a lot of fun...most of the time. I loved him dearly and I always will. I'm going to tell you all a story of forgiveness beyond imaging. I was in a store one day while visiting my mother. She and I were together. Suddenly the woman in front of us fell and somehow became tangled in a cart. Her daughter was screaming and no help. I looked at my mama and told her, find someone to call an ambulance. She might have had a heart attack! Mama stood there glued to the spot, her eyes filled with tears. I can't! She told me. By this time others had come to help. I took mama outside and helped her into the car. Soon my husband and uncle had found us and we headed home. Mama told this story "I never told anybody, not even family," she said in a soft voice. "It all hit me when I saw Her again! My husband cheated on me. With that woman. He caught Syphilis from her. I was pregnant. He was really sick and had to go in the hospital for weeks. He was very sick when I found out that I had it. I couldn't go into the hospital. I had three young children. One just two years old. The doctor treated me at home and I told nobody. When the baby was born she was perfect, even though she was early. She had beautiful skin, not wrinkled and she seldom cried. She lived five days. Our old Dr told me after she died that he knew she would but he prayed anyway. Only he, my husband and me knowed why she died. I had syphilis, so did she. We had no pictures so the photographer from Cumberland took a picture of her after she died so my husband could see her. He was still in the hospital. It was hard for me to forgive him. I wouldnt let him come home until I was sure I could put the past into the past. He stayed with his maw for several months ànd after a while and a lot of praying I let him come home. I talked to the old Dr about it and he told me, 'now Lizzie, if you can't let it go and truly forgive him, then you shouldn't let him come back. You can't have a relationship when things, even terrible things, aren't forgiven.' I forgave him and went on to have that one last baby." She said, "I never saw the woman again until today I suspect it will take a whole lot of of prayers to forgive her." Honestly I'm not sure I could have forgiven that but I would not have allowed him into my life if I had been my mother, but if not I would not be here today. I was the last child. But she said she never mentioned it to him again. She never forgot her little children though and I saw her tears when we visited their graves, and I witnessed horrible heartbreak. I am in the process of writing a book about those days and I was not sure if I should include this story or tell it to anyone but today I felt I should write about it ànd about forgiveness. My Christmas message is that forgiveness is the hardest thing we can possibly do and if we can't forgive that person then we shouldn't allow them back into our lives, for forgiveness is not forgiveness if you keep reminding them of their fall from grace. It's not easy, never easy to truly forgive! I hope you all can forgive me for this heartbreaking story on Christmas. (Christmas snow two years ago)--December 25

Advent Devotion 4: December 14, 2022 Zechariah 9:9 By Rev. Brandee Jasmine Mimitzraiem

The following thoughtful devotion is taken from the most recent Methodist Federation for Social Action bulletin.

May this devotion move us and disturb us into taking action.

Zechariah 9:9 “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; shout, O daughter of Jersualem: behold, thy King cometh unto thee: he is just, and having salvation; lowly, and riding upon an ass, and upon a colt the foal of an ass.”

The crimson of Christmas-to-come can carry a different meaning for the infertile. Hidden in the shadows of city sidewalks, behind the anticipation of the birth of the Child so easily conceived, Advent for infertile and low-fertility women can come with the silent dread of seeing a crimson ribbon where none should be.

I went home for Christmas, after a compassionless ob/gyn giddily announced that I would not be burdened with the ability to conceive children, on crutches. I was moving too fast, carrying too much, and had rolled down a flight of marble stairs. I couldn’t navigate the shopping malls or the piles of snow. I stayed behind while my family members went out. The babysitter. The aunty who could not have her own. Resigned to her fate.

Somehow, we all managed to get to church on the third Sunday of Advent. My mom’s pastor preached the first reading, Zechariah 9:9. “Rejoice,” he said, “for everything you desire is coming soon. Be joyful in the expectation of your wildest dreams coming true.” I hobbled back to my mom’s house, with two sprained ankles and a torn meniscus, feeling the pain of ovaries wrapped in cysts and a uterus that the doctor said would remain empty, and I wondered where the joy was for me, who deeply desired children, but whose physician rejoicingly declared that I would not be one of the scores of Black women who would “suffer through that.” I felt defeated, invisible, and no matter how many times I heard the words “rejoice, O Daughter” ring from my mom’s recording of Handle’s Messiah (or its Joyful Celebration), I could find no cause for rejoicing.

I wonder if the daughters of Jerusalem and daughters of Zion who heard Zechariah’s prophecy felt the same way. Known by their relationships, Zechariah calls out to the women as daughters. Not the mothers. Not the wives. He calls out to the women who were the accidental casualties of a war they did not wage. Rejoice. From the sidelines where they watched the warriors fall. Rejoice. From the margins where they witnessed the mighty be pulled into exile. Rejoice. From the shadows where they heard decisions being made for the nation around them, decisions that did not include them. Rejoice. Unmarried. Cut off from having children. Invisible to the narrative. Rejoice.

We’ve been in a war for abortion rights, this season. Across the United States, we’re battling for access, for the rights of impregnable women to make their own decisions. And in the fringes, on the margins, the infertile and low-fertility shudder in invisibility. The infertile and those of low fertility are the accidental casualties of the battle for abortion rights. Political arguments about the beginning of life – whether at conception or at the first signs of electrical activity – leave fertility clinics, doctors, impregnable people and their families shuddering in the shadows, invisible and unheard. What do these emerging laws mean for the embryos waiting for implantation? What do they mean for the embryos that cannot be implanted? What do they mean for the patient that can conceive but suffers miscarriage after miscarriage, crimson ribbons appearing where they are not welcomed to be? In this battle over the rights of the easily pregnant to choose their own narrative, even those voices crying out in the wilderness, “keep your hands off my uterus” tend to not see the pain of those for whom pregnancy is not simply a choice but is, itself, a battle.
Rejoice.

Perhaps Zechariah’s call to rejoice is not a demand for easy joy, a demand to forget the pain and suffering of exilic life. Perhaps Zechariah’s phrasing of Jerusalem and Zion as daughters – and not mothers or wives – awaiting good news and good tidings is a call for the nations, the community to witness the pain of those marginalized by the battle. Rather than a call for the expectant hope of deliverance at the hands of a king that never came or never existed, perhaps Zechariah calls the daughters to see, simply, that God is present in the midst of their pain. Rather than an easy supercessionist slip into a messianic hope for salvation, perhaps Zechariah calls the community to see that God sees the pain of those at the margins and choose to alleviate the fear therein. Perhaps the rejoicing is not a promise for what is to come but a recognition that the torment and trauma was real and so is the permission to grieve, to heal, and to simply no longer fear. Rejoice.

The Christmas after the Christmas on crutches, I came home in defiant opposition of that doctor. Whatever level of infertility I had, I decided, I would make my body cooperate and bear a child. I came home reeling from multiple failed medicated attempts, never ever wanting to see another red dot or crimson streak. Since I was in charge of decorating the tree, we had a pastel Christmas. And, somewhere deep behind the jingles of joy, I found a trove of sad holiday music. It was a community of tears and, there, I found the possibility of rejoicing. I rejoiced – not in spite of what I lost, not because of the possible fulfillment of all I dreamed, not because of a new hope found – because my pain was shared and vocalized. I was no longer alone. God saw me. I recognized God with me. I rejoiced.

O daughter, whose pregnancy story never makes it to front page news: we see you. Rejoice. O daughter, who hides your tears in the rosiness of frozen cheeks, behind the twinkling of silver bells: God is with you. Rejoice. O daughter, for whom the story of an easy impregnation of a young woman serves as a reminder of your own difficulties: God sees you. Rejoice. O daughter, the trauma of your story has not been swept aside in this battle for sovereignty. Every year, every Christmas, we join our tears in communion with your own. That is rejoicing. O daughter, O aunty, O sister: we remember you, we recognize your pain, we reimagine a future where you are not pressed at the edges of our community. That is rejoicing.

We stand together, rehearsing the words of Zechariah to the daughters left behind after war, exile, and devastation: rejoice, O daughter. Rejoice. Behold – look and see! – God holds and sees you, in your pain. Behold – look and see! – God is with you. Don’t fear disaster. We, too, are with you.

Rejoice.

An Important Announcement...

Let's please change our way of thinking and talking. This comes from the Standing Bear Network.

At the request of many elders we will now refer to the unidentified Indigenous woman murdered by the serial killer in Winnipeg as ‘Buffalo Woman’ instead of unidentified woman. Until her name is found, we honour her, kitotimnaw (our relative).

Ten Minutes of Torah---Dinah's Legacy by Rabbi Stacy Rigler

I hope that some readers of this blog are paying attention to my suggestion that Christians humbly engage with ReformJudaism.org and consider the Ten Minutes of Torah study that can be found there. Rabbi Stacy Rigler has a study of the story of Dinah (Genesis 32:4−36:43) that shows a good method for understanding theology and building bridges from the ancient past to today.

Rabbi Rigler writes

As a young rabbinic student, I thought that it was silence that perpetrated violence against women. I imagined if more people understood the prevalence of abuse, they would be more likely to act. In the past 20 years, as stories of abuse against women, trans and non-binary people, and children emerge in every arena, I wonder if the problem might be that these topics are so difficult, we avoid them all together. The story of the rape of Dinah in the middle of Genesis reminds us that sexual violence is part of every society and cannot be ignored . As I re-examined her story this year, I learned that Dinah was likely younger than 13 years old when she was raped.

It has been 20 years since I gave my first sermon on the rape of Dinah. In that time, the rates of reported sexual assault have declined and awareness of sexual violence has increased. There is so much more work to be done. Dinah's name means "justice." Together, this week and every week, let us continue to work towards justice to prevent the prevalence of sexual abuse in every arena... Reading the parashah this week we are reminded that sexual violence is part of our society, both in the past, and in our current day. How will you learn more, do more, listen more, to honor her legacy this week?

The Rabbi provides a helpful list of things that can be done to stop sexual abuse, sexual assault, and the victimization of children that speaks to circumstances within Jewish communities. We need Christians to step towards the work being done by Rabbi Rigler and adapt that for Christian communities.

Some thoughts to warm you and some ideas to study on

Beth Allison has been catching lots of grief for this post. Her book The Making of Biblical Womanhood: How the Subjugation of Women Became Gospel Truth ( Brazos Press, 2021

should be standard reading and discussion material for all of us.

This is from Judi Tarowsky, who writes "On the U.S.S. Arizona in January 2020. This allows visitors to look down onto the ship. When a ship survivor dies, if he wishes, his ashes are interred in a special place on the ship. Divers access it through this opening, with full Navy ceremonies. It is a deeply emotional and spiritual place to visit. The memorial wall with the names about did me in."

This post came to me by way of Sam Swan and has the following story with it;

A son took his father to a restaurant to enjoy a delicious dinner. His father is quite old

and therefore ,a little weak too. While eating, food occasionally fell on his shirt and pants.

The other guests watched the old man with their faces contorted in disgust, but his son

remained calm. After they both finished eating, the son quietly helped his father and took

him to the toilet. Cleaned food scraps from his crampled face and attempted to wash food

stains on his clothes, graciously combed his gray hair and finally put on his glasses.

As they left the restroom, a deep silence reigned in the restaurant. The son paid their bill 

but just before they leave, a man, also old, got up and ask the old man’s son , “Don’t you

think you left something here?”

The young man replied “I did not leave anything.”

Then the stranger said to him, ”You left a lesson here for every son and a hope for every

father.” The whole restaurant was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop!

One of the greatest honours that exist ,is being able to take care of those who have taken

care of us too. Our parents and all those elders who sacrificed their lives with all their time, money and effort for us, deserve our utmost respect.

Remembering church in East Tennessee

The following remembrance comes from Wilma L. Jozwiak and was posted on the Appalachian Americans Facebook page. I think that it's well-written, good history, and a good read.

In general, church in the summer in East Tennessee was torture. By the time Sunday School was over and services began, the sanctuary was a miserable place. Air conditioning was unknown, and little girl legs beneath Sunday dresses stuck firmly to varnished pews. Viewed from above in the balcony (not that little kids got to sit in the balcony), the sanctuary was a sea of funeral parlor fans attempting to move stagnant air. In the summer, ministers had no difficulty convincing the flock of the dangers of hell fire.

In East Tennessee, women wore posies to church on Mother's Day. The average temperature on Mother’s Day in Rogersville, Tennessee is 82 degrees, but even on the hottest days of spring in East Tennessee, the humidity usually guarantees morning dew. I remember the cool touch of moisture as I slipped bare footed through the grass at my aunt Nettie B’s side on the mornings of Mothers Day.
We headed for the garden, tucked at the end of the garage in the back yard of Grandma’s house. It was Mother’s Day, and I got to help make the posies.

Women whose mothers had passed wore white posies. That meant my grandma, whose own mother was many years gone. Choices for her were white roses or white iris, filled in with babies breath. I agonized over the choice, but gave in to the sweet smell of the roses. My mother, Nettie B, and I all had living mothers, so we could choose from the vivid colors. I was a sucker for iris - to me, the wooly track down the curving purple petal was exotic and beautiful. My mother loved daisies, but they were white, so we chose blackeyed Susans for her. Nettie B loved the bright colors of the pinks, so we cut different shades of rose and red to make her posey. Together, Nettie B and I cut the flowers with Grandma’s sewing shears, and added bridal veil spirea and a fern frond to each. Nettie B finished off each posey with a white or red ribbon pulled from her stash of reclaimed Christmas wrap. Each posey went into the fridge to wait until we were dressed for church.

Later I had corsages and a bridal bouquet created by florists, all worthy of note for their professionalism, but it is those Mothers Day posies, created in the relative cool of an East Tennessee morning, that live in the freshness of my mind.
.

Women In The Mountains...

This come from an entry by Mary Simmons on the Appalachian Americans Facebook page:

Around 1810, 15 year old Sarah Persinger was attacked by her father’s farm hand as she cleaned the barn. Sarah killed him with a pitchfork hitting him in the face with it so many times that he no longer looked human. The men wanted to bury him but the women of Rich Patch, Va said to burn the body and drop his ashes in an unmarked pit as the Devil did not need a marker to claim what was his.
Mrs. Wolfe was a small woman, but it was said she was able to do the work of any man. When a man who had been drinking hit her, the journals state that the next day he looked like he had been run over by a horse and was missing several teeth.

Ruth Persinger Humphries called aunt Ruthy by most was one of the most beloved yet feared women in her region. She was a textbook of mountain medicine and people respected her for that but every man knew that cross her and you would need her services as a healer. When a husband tried to keep her from treating his wife she told him, "I am a good Christian woman and if you don't git I will send you to Jesus." Needless to say, he got out of her way.

We're all going to be dealing with this...

 

Frazey Ford - Done [Official Music Video] with lyrics

I have mixed feelings about posting this because of the language used, but I think that the themes here touch a spot with many of us and that the adults and young ones who are caught up in spouse abuse and families disintegrating (and maybe reforming) all hear this language and know this pain and anger. I also hope that they know or come to know the love and solidarity we see here.

I was taking every hit from you
You drive-by shooting son of a bitch, and I'm done
Oh whoa, I'm done
Who told you that you could rewrite the rules, and do you
Really take me for a goddamn fool cause I'm done
Oh whoa, I'm done

And you can drag me out before some authority
If that's what you have to do to feel like you can punish me
But I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't keep the peace anymore
With your dogs, with your dogs, at my door

You've been punching my weaknesses, slandering my name
You spent all your time trying to place your blame, and I'm done
Ohhh, I'm done
I used to think I hold the best parts of me
To sew the holes in your life and the cracks in your seams
And I'm done
Oh whoa, I'm done

And I'm sorry that you don't like your life
But I fought for my own victories and for the beauty in my life
My joy, my joy, my joy takes nothing from you
No, my joy, my joy, my joy takes nothing from you

Well, you criticize my numbers, you hammer out the rules
Wait for me to fuck up, and find yourself some proof
And I'm done
Oh whoa, I'm done
You just soak in the hatred of a sorry line
Yeah, you hide behind decorum and a fake smile
And I'm done
Oh whoa, I'm done

And you can drag me out before a judge and authorities
If that's what you have to do to feel like you can punish me
But I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't keep the peace anymore
With your dogs, with your dogs, at my door
Well I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't keep the peace anymore
With your dogs, with your dogs, at my door

The Appalachian Storyteller: Appalachian Granny Witches

This has a little more drama and supposition to it than I would have liked, but I think that it's worth looking at and talking about. I don't know how you might tell a "Granny witch" from other knowledgeable women in Appalachia, and much that is described here existed in Pennsylvania's anthracite mining region until recently and involved men and women healers. I'm not all that happy with people talking about how we're going to survive impending disasters---I would rather we were talking about how to prevent them. But there is something helpful in recalling history and breaking down stereotypes.    

Listen carefully to these Spirit-filled women

Foundry UMC Worship & Prayer with Cassandra Lawrence 7/20/22

Naomi Judd And Our Difficult American History

A friend of mine has been reading River of Time: My Descent into Depression and How I Emerged with Hope by Naomi Judd. My friend was moved enough by the book to offer the following comments on Facebook:

I just finished a memoir by Naomi Judd, addressing her struggle with profound depression, anxiety disorder and PTSD. I had the book for a couple of years, but hadn’t started reading it until she committed suicide.

The book ended with her climbing out of her depression and giving lots of advice about how to cope with it. It’s heartbreaking that all of those struggles and a seeming recovery, she couldn’t make it. She and Wynonna made an appearance at an awards show, announced an impending tour and were finally to be inducted in the Country Music Hall of Fame. The day before the ceremony, she put a gun to her head and ended her life.

Her struggles with depression , anxiety disorders and PTSD resonated with me because I’m coming off of 18 months of nearly unbearable physical and mental anguish.

Ms. Judd made a comment about feeling alone and isolated, but feeling unable to interact with others. Mine developed into one of my infrequent bouts of agoraphobia.

I actually walked over to the Clubhouse last evening and played Bingo with other residents, most of whom I was just meeting. I also walked both yesterday and today, things I thought I was unable to do even a few days ago. It took a lot of encouragement from friends and my therapist giving me homework, for me to follow through on it.

If you suffer with mental health issues, please reach out. There are people and agencies willing to help, although Covid has greatly exacerbated the issues with overextended resources along with increased demand for services. Reach out, you are loved and needed and worthy. You are NOT alone.

Reading these comments has brought some unexpected or unacknowledged feelings up for me about the Judds and their music, but I don't want this post to be about me. I think that the comments above show a sensitivity to life and death and demonstrate how someone's life and writing and music can touch people's hearts after they die. I think that this also cuts through so many of the judgmental attitudes about suicide that prevent us from coming to grips with what suicide is and how to prevent it. Depression is real, and these days you might well be taken for crazy if you're not struggling with depression or being swept away by it.

We try to affirm and encourage people on this blog, but I know that it takes much more than this to really help and be present for folks. I do believe that you're precious and a necessary part of a larger picture. I hope that that is of some help.   

I think that my friend's commentary also begins to cut through the prejudices against country music, and against women country musicians and singers in particular. Those women get stereotyped and looked down on and commercialized or Nashvilleized, but at their best they are telling stories that people can see themselves in. That looking down on the music and the musicians and performers is looking down on the people who see themselves in that music.

Kerry Leigh Merritt published her book Masterless Men about five years ago. This is a tough book to read, and its not for everyone, but it tells a true story of poor whites and their relationship to slavery in the Antebellum South. A significant number of poor whites living in the Deep or Solid South had no material interest in slavery as an institution and likely either opposed it or were indifferent to it prior to the Civil War. They had to be forced to join the Confederate armies in large numbers, and many deserted. As many as 100,000 white southerners crossed the lines during the Civil War. Large numbers of those who stayed behind helped cause the slave economy to collapse. It is a lasting tragedy of our history that there was not greater unity across racial lines in the anti-slavery struggle in the south, but Merritt helps us better understand why that was so.  

Kerry Leigh Merritt does a great job in building on work done by W. E. B. Du Bois and others in tracing the Black freedom struggle before and during the Civil War and during Reconstruction. But I think that she is at her best in describing white poverty, mass white disaffection in the south in the early 19th century, cooperation between oppressed whites and Blacks where and when it did occur, and the conditions of dictatorship that the white southern ruling class used in order to separate Blacks and whites and terrorize each group.

The anger and listlessness (I cannot think of another word) that poor whites held onto as they hid in isolated communities or became an itinerant and precarious population that sometimes threatened the social order are in some measure the seeds of white depression and anger in the south. And that depression and anger (I think) helped birth country music. Seen in this way, Naomi Judd was living history, or was representing a history that we have not yet acknowledged as a nation.

I don't know that we will ever get to a point of stopping suicide if we can't confront this history and come to terms with it and turn this country around.

If you're struggling right now, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255. 
       

Naomi Judd Opens Up About Long Struggle With Severe Depression

River of Time - The Judds 1991